


Stop and Smell the Motherfucking Roses, Dude

by Newtavore



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Biting, Cuddling & Snuggling, Gentle Sex, I don't know what else to tag, M/M, Possessive Behavior, Post-Coital Cuddling, Violent Thoughts?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-05-17
Updated: 2014-05-17
Packaged: 2018-01-21 23:32:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,710
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1567946
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Newtavore/pseuds/Newtavore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You think that's the biggest point of contention between you, really. He's always speeding, always trying to get things done and over with, and if anyone needs to learn the motherfucking meaning of 'stop and smell the roses', it's him. You kind of think he's worried about you leaving, that he's trying to get as much sensation and love from you as he can before he's left by the wayside, but it's a ridiculous notion. You'd never do anything like that. </p><p> </p><p>A'course, he doesn't know that, but that's just another reason he needs to learn to slow down.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stop and Smell the Motherfucking Roses, Dude

**Author's Note:**

> let me know if this turned out all right because i was like, literally gagging when i had to write anything with kissing in it
> 
> bleh i do not understand how kissing is sexy

Eridan is skittish, when it comes to concupiscent matters. You would never have guessed it, with the way he acts around you and everyone else, but little fish is the shyest motherfucking thing you think you've ever pailed. Not that you've pailed much, but still, he's right at the top of the list. 

 

 

You've been told by previous partners that you're a pretty intense troll to have relations with, but that doesn't really explain the way he reacts when you get him under you, the way he shies away from your eyes, your touch.

 

He acts so high and mighty, the most motherfucking prissy of fishes, but all that self confidence and overbearing superiority disappears as soon as you get him alone, as soon as you wrap him in your arms and kiss him. He melts, when you do that, like a popsicle left too long out in the heat of day, and if it ain't the cutest motherfucking thing. 

 

You've got your lips locked right now, actually, and he's tense and shaking in your arms but he pulls you back to him as soon as you part for air, whimpering like the lack of you pains him. It might, you don't know what a motherfucker up and needs to survive, but with the way he acts around you sometimes, you wouldn't be surprised if you're as vital as water to him, vital as air. 

 

He's edgy and nervous and he's got a hunted look about him, the kind of look you know he gets when people've been talking about him behind his back, and it kind of makes you flinch because you've been absolved where he hasn't. You've been forgiven, and he hasn't, for whatever goddamn stupid reason. You can't do anything about that, though, so you just kiss him again, kiss him and hold him as tight as you can without hurting him and you think it helps because even though he's still shaking, he's less frantic, less hurried, and he lets you slow everything down. 

 

You think that's the biggest point of contention between you, really. He's always speeding, always trying to get things done and over with, and if anyone needs to learn the motherfucking meaning of 'stop and smell the roses', it's him. You kind of think he's worried about you leaving, that he's trying to get as much sensation and love from you as he can before he's left by the wayside, but it's a ridiculous notion. You'd never do anything like that. 

 

A'course, he doesn't know that, but that's just another reason he needs to learn to slow down. 

 

You back up a few steps until you can sit on the edge of your concupiscent platform, pulling him into your lap as you go. You kiss him again, slow and leisurely, taking the time to card your hands through his hair, and he sighs into your mouth like you've kicked him in the gut, a harsh exhalation of air, like he doesn't know what to up and _do_ with all this motherfucking tenderness. 

 

Maybe he doesn't, but if you keep on thinking down that road, you're going to need your motherfucking moirail. 

 

"Gamzee-" he pants, almost a sob, and you quiet him with another slow kiss, letting your hands slide across his chest and stomach, and down. His bones are sharp and prominent, obvious to the touch, and you kind of want to tell him to eat more but you're pretty sure that would be the most motherfuckin hypocritical thing ever, because it's not like you have a lot of excess fucking fat either. 

 

"Shh, motherfucker," you rasp, rubbing your thumbs over the protrusions of his hips, feeling him arch into the contact, "Gotta slow the fuck down, little fish."

 

His hands grip your shoulders tight enough to bruise and he kisses you frantically, all teeth and tongue, but you refuse to respond until he's calmed down. It makes him whine, high and needy, but he does as you want and relaxes, letting you take control of the speed, You think it's kind of flattering that he's so desperate after only a few kisses, but you've never been one for in and out pailing. 

 

You're slow and gentle and soft, kissing him until he goes limp in your hands and responds with the same laziness you're so fond of, letting his arms drape loosely around your neck. You reward him by running your hands up and down his sides, barely grazing the delicate little gills he's got hidden away under all his layers, and he murmurs your name, softer this time, more a sound of pleasure than one of discomfort. 

 

"Re _laaaaax_ ," you drawl, letting the elongated syllables pour from your lips as you brush them against his cheek, his jaw, his neck, "Relax, motherfucker, I got you."

 

He chirrs at that, arms tightening, but all he does is lay his head down on your shoulder and shiver as your fingertips dance over some of his most motherfucking miraculous seadweller parts. He's so sensitive to touch, so responsive, that sometimes you wonder why he's so eager to get everything done and over with.

 

You brush your lips over his delicate earfins, the thin tines flaring and coloring violet at your touch. 

 

"Gam…" he sighs, almost a croon, and you lap at the hollow where his little fins meet his jaw, causing him to choke on a soft whine. You love the sounds that he makes, even if he seems hell bent on silencing them. You just love him in general, to be honest, love and pity mixing and flaring deep in your chest whenever you catch a glimpse of him, high and mighty facade or no. 

 

When you slide your hands up under his shirts, he's cold to the touch, and he whimpers and sighs and leans into your hands like he's gonna die if you don't keep going. He's clinging again, but he's not trying to force you to go any quicker than you are so you don't feel the need to do anything about it. You do, however, feel the need to cover his neck and jaw in little kisses and soft love bites, and while you mark him up, you run the very tips of your fingers over the dangerously fragile breathing slits your motherfucker has slashed right through his ribcage. You're careful not to press too hard, or to catch your claws on the delicate filaments that make up the decorative frills covering the gills, because there is nothing less sexy than causing your partner irreparable damage. 

 

Eridan seems to agree with you  because he goes still, the only movement the fluttering of his fins as he breathes deep once, twice, and again, trying not to do so much as twitch, but you know he's enjoying himself a great deal because of the little chirrs that he allows to pass his lips, high and breathy. You rub your fingertips around the sensitive areas in idle little circles, coaxing a few more sounds from him, and lick a line up his neck, skimming your tongue over the gills there. 

 

"G- gam-" he chokes, tugging at your shirt, and you take the moment to roll him off your lap and onto the platform, covering his body with your own. He bucks his hips up into yours, but you press him down, hold him still until he relaxes again, whining quietly. 

 

Sometimes, when his rush is caused more by love and excitement than panic, you let him set the pace, but not now. Now, you can almost feel his desperation, his blatant, intense desire to please you, to keep you with him, to not be alone, and you refuse to let him rush to the best part because he thinks you'll leave if he waits too long. No, now that you both have the time and the energy for some good, long lovemaking, you are going to pin him to this motherfucking bed and not let him leave until long after the sun has set. 

 

You kiss him again, allowing your weight to hold him still, and he responds with the same slow pace you've set, making you smile. You let the kiss increase in intensity, if not speed, and slide your tongue into his mouth. There is no battle for dominance, no cliche'd burst of fireworks; he's open to you, to your touch, and you kiss him languidly, pulling soft little sighs and moans from him with every slow movement. 

 

"Gam, please, your shirt-" he breathes, fiddling with the hem, "I w-wanna feel you-  _please_ -"

 

You sit up, your shift in position forcing his legs open wide, and shuck off your shirt, helping with his after. Both of them end up in a sad little pile on the floor but you don't care; you're already covering him back up, pressing against him chest to chest, feeling the chill of him, the hammer of his heartbeat against your skin. You run your hands down his sides and he arches against you, trying to push into your hands, but your weight keeps him flat no matter how much he struggles. 

 

You've always been a big fucker for your age, but the ease it takes to keep him still reminds you of how tiny Eridan is. Despite your matching ages, he's still the size of a six sweep old, and though he'd been long and tall when you'd all been six, he hasn't grown a single inch, unlike the rest of you. You know seadwellers molt weird, but the size difference between you is almost comical. You can easily keep him pinned with your weight alone, and you think you could manage it with one hand on his chest, if you so desired… and if he let you. Despite your size differences, he’s a seadweller; he could lift you up and throw you, if he wanted, but he trusts you and allows you to do this to him, and that’s a fucking miracle you still have a hard time believing, sometimes. 

 

You keep petting him till he settles, rocking your hips just the slightest. He stops bucking against you and starts moving with you, body loose and relaxed, sprawled across the platform like a puppet with cut strings, legs spread, hands limp by his head. Sweet little chirps and trills fall from his lips like water, motherfucking music to your ears, and you run a thumb over a gillslit in reward. 

 

He gives you a soft little keen in response, the little fins on his shoulders flaring and fluttering temptingly. You tug his pants down low enough to free the ones on his hips, too, but you don't pull them all the way off, not yet. Too soon for that. You want this to go steady and soft, want this to be unrushed and unhurried, want him to get his motherfucking _feel_ on before you get anywhere near his most sensitive bits. 

 

The fins flush violet as you run your fingers over them, stroking and petting slowly. His body rolls with your touch, lazy movements that belie his harsh, pleading whimpers. He likes this just as much as you do, enjoys it when you take over and make him go your speed, especially when he’s at his most frantic and frenzied. Your hands on his hips steadies him, your fingers tracing soothing spirals across his flesh, and he allows you complete control over him and his actions, waiting for your cue. 

 

“Such a good little fish,” you hum, letting your weight drop onto him, keeping him still with your mass, “Good little fish, ain’t’cha?"

 

He mumbles out something that might be an assent, eyes half lidded, breath coming in short little pants. He’s strung out already, touch drunk, and you’ve barely had your hands on him ten minutes. It makes something like rage burn in your gut, but you’re not sure why, not sure why seeing him so wanton after so little gets you all motherfucking _righteously furious_ inside. Like he’s starved of affection, maybe, like he’s desperate and ravenous for touch, for anything you’ll give him. 

 

You’ve accidentally flipped black for him a few times, not often, but just enough to know that he’ll take whatever he can get, even if it leaves him hurting and broken afterwards. 

 

You don’t like him hurting and broken. You like him alive, vibrant and glowing with his color the way he is now, flushed violet and lying back and waiting for you to make him feel good. 

 

You bend your head and mouth along the gills lining his neck, lapping at them with a gentle tongue, and he moans in response, soft and quiet. His hands tangle in your hair, but he doesn’t try to push you down, just holds on, like he needs something to ground him, keep him from floating away. You run a hand down his chest as your tongue laves his little frills with affection, and he chirrs, arching into your hand as you caress the tight skin over his ribs, his stomach, his hips. 

 

The frantic beat of his heart has calmed, and you can feel the steady thumping of the organ against your palm, rhythmic, hypnotic. Suddenly, the feel of him against you isn’t enough anymore. You want all of him, every last bit of him exposed and aching for your touch, and it’s with that thought that you reach between your bodies and shove off his pants. He squirms a bit, to help you, but doesn’t attempt to do anything contrary to the pace and measure you’ve set, settling back onto the bed without you even having to push him there. 

 

He’s lax under your hands, as you smooth them over newly revealed surfaces, over the little fins on his hips and the cool, textured skin of his thighs, the raised ridges of tattoos setting your right hand alight with sensation. The intricate patterns curl like waves over the skin of his left leg, stylized tentacles and sea creatures, flowers and water and storm clouds, and you take the time to lavish them with attention, because you know how long a process it was to carve them into his skin. He’d told you, once, that it had taken days to hammer the designs in with tiny urchin spines and ink, days of agony to fulfill a tradition no one cared about any longer, but he’d done it, and the proof of his strength and resolve writhes with him as he twitches in your grasp. 

 

“Gam…” 

 

He bucks, body moving involuntarily as your fingers skim over his inner thighs, close, but not touching what he so desperately desires you to. You shush him with a kiss, languid and easy, barely more than a brush of lips and tongue, and he leans into your mouth like a drowning man to air, gasping against your lips as you hold him still. 

 

“Chill, lover,” you murmur, and he shivers, panting and trying desperately not to go too fast, move too much, and the struggle painted across his face is beautiful. 

 

“Gam, please…”

 

He lies under you, prostrate, chest heaving with enough force to brush against yours, and stares at you, wanting and unselfconscious and oh so beautiful. You let your body slide against his, your weight pressing him down into the bed till he’s wheezing slightly, cheeks flushed the same bright, miraculous violet as his blood, and he’s such a colorful little fucker, all vivid and brilliant chroma. You want to rip him open and spill all that iridescent color, but you want to hold him close and keep anyone from shedding it even more. This motherfucker is yours, all his faults and flaws and fatal elegance, his little fishy fins and delicate bits and pieces, all yours to take care of and protect, _all fucking yours_. 

 

You don’t even realize you’re speaking out loud, feverishly mumbling against the skin of his throat, until he responds, weak and breathy, “Yours, all yours.”

 

The broken words send a flash of heat straight through you, and you finally let your hands fall where he’s so desperately been wanting them. 

 

“Y-yours-“ he gasps again, cut off by his own high chirping, hips bucking into your hand, and you want to sink your teeth into his throat and pull, you want to tear out his veins and paint with the blood that runs through them, you want to hold him close and coddle him and never let him leave the safety of your arms. He’s so deceptively, deceivingly delicate, all thin bones and wiry muscle, but you know he could snap your neck in a heartbeat if he truly wanted. He’s strong, stronger than you in some respects, though you think you might have him cornered in the brute strength department, barely, you know he could take you down with a single shot if he so desired. 

 

And he’s yours. All fucking yours. 

 

You kiss him again, slow but intense, and he melts against you, hands clutching your shoulders like lifelines. His bulge is curling around your wrist, squeezing and pulling, but your hand is occupied with something much, much better. 

 

He seems to think so too, if the way his head flies back, horns tangling in the blankets, is any indication. His claws dig into your skin but the tiny pinpricks are barely noticeable, not with the way you’re caught up in his expression of pleasure. He’s already flayed to his basest needs, hips twitching helplessly against your fingers, every other sound out of him a choked off, breathless moan. 

 

You want to make him come just from this, just from your lips and tongue and hands. You want to pry him apart with your mouth until he spills over you, you want to do so much to him, but even your unalternian patience is beginning to run thin. Maybe another time. 

 

Now, though, you coax your three fingers from his nook and slowly, carefully replace them with your bulge. He goes stock still when you press the first few inches inside of him, mouth open in a silent plea, fingers scrabbling perforce against your shoulders. He acts like he’s not used to it, like you don’t hold him close and pail him every chance you get, like each time is the first time, the only time he’s ever done this, and it’s beautiful. It’s a miracle.  _He’s_ a miracle, spine arched, eyes rolled back in his head, every shuddering breath rocking his thin frame, making your hands, wrapped around his ribcage as they are, seem that much broader, that much larger. 

 

Sometimes, you’re scared that you might accidentally break him, if you go too fast. Even in your most intense pailing sessions, even the few times you’d flipped for him, you’d always made sure he was ready, and you always took this part slow. You were too scared of hurting him, shattering him and his trust in you into a million pieces, and you can’t have that. 

 

Even when he tugs on your hair and pleads for more, faster, now, you inch into him at a snail’s pace, slow, centimeter by centimeter, until you’re fully sheathed inside him and he’s shedding tears of overwhelming sensation. 

 

You smooth your hands over his thighs and kiss him softly, licking up the tears from his face and _fuck_ if they don’t taste like the greatest motherfucking thing in the universe. They’re delicious, he’s delicious, legs spread wide by you, sprawled across the bedsheets, incapable of any movement but that which you allow him to give, completely at your mercy, under your control. 

 

“Gam,” he whimpers, face scrunched like he’s in pain but you know it’s just cause he’s feeling so much, all at once, you know he feels good, you can see it in the way his hips stutter with aborted motions, “Gam, pl-please, mowe-“

 

He’s lost his harsh regimentation over his speech, the little stutters over the w’s and the doubled, rounded v’s spilling like water from his uncultured, slang riddled tongue. You kiss him, again, silencing his begging, but you give him what he wants… to an extent. You do begin to move, but only the smallest, most careful rocks, barely twitching inside him, barely moving him with your gentle thrusting, and he tosses his head and whines, high and ragged around the edges. 

 

He’s so desperate, but his desperation is caused by sensation, now, rather than a terrified desire to please you. He looks at you with heavy lidded eyes, all fear gone, replaced by pleasure and desire and red as fire pity, and he’s so, so beautiful. Every small motion of your hips drives his anxiety away, releases the uncomfortable, hunted tension of his muscles, reassures him that you’re here, you aren’t leaving, you are going nowhere.  

 

It’s heartbreakingly pitiful, for all its beauty. He still fears you getting bored with him, tossing him aside like a broken toy and finding something more interesting to entertain yourself with, like that would ever be a possibility. You don’t think you could ever do such a thing, not with the way he’s burrowed into your chest, into your brain, with his pathetic expressions, his iron strength, his tragic life experiences. It’s like he was tailor made for you, for only you, to hug and coddle and pity with every last fibre of your being, like his _entire motherfucking purpose_ in life is to be yours, like your own purpose in life is to be his. 

 

You roll your hips, and he croons, hands falling from your head to clench and tug and the sheets underneath him. You can tell he’s trying terribly hard not to goad you into going faster, but he can’t stop the little trills falling from lips, or the frantic, agitated twitching and curling of his bulge, sandwiched between the two of you as it is. He’s been so good, though, and god, all you wanted to do was slow him down, calm him down, show him that you’re not gonna bolt if he doesn’t get down to it immediately, and you think you’ve succeeded. He’s pliant, passive, and he smiles dazedly up at you like he’s got no more cares in the world, just you and your bulge and the pleasure fire spreading through his body.

 

It’s just the way you like him, the best motherfucking feeling in the world, being able to take him away from that nervous headspace he jams himself into, fretting and worrying himself in circles until he breaks down and snaps. He’s so emotionally fragile, for all his physical strength, so easily breakable, even though he could probably pick you up and toss you around like a ship in a stormy sea. Yet he bows to you, lets you control him with soft words and softer touches, gently dominating motions, until he’s as motherfucking complacent as can be, bending to your will with no protests, eased out of his overbearing distress over life in general. 

 

He’s such a high strung motherfucker, always tense, muscles strained to snapping in expectation of fight or flight. In your arms or under you is the only time you get to see him relax, slow down, breathe deep and let the world float by like the lovely, miraculous, yet ultimately meaningless thing it is. You’re his safe harbor, his port in the storm, the place he goes when he’s afraid he’s gonna shake apart, when the constant anxiety gets too much and he thinks he’s gonna do something drastic just to make himself stop the panicking. 

 

He sighs, a quiet little sound, and closes his eyes, tilting his head and baring his throat and there’s a surge of something primal, territorial inside of you at the sigh of such a vulnerable piece of him, something that lights you up and makes you want to sink your teeth in and shake, coddle and cradle him close and protect, all at the same time. 

 

Your next rock is harder, more of a thrust, and you grind against him, bracing your arms on the bed on either side of his shoulders and licking up the column of his neck, tongue grazing the frilly little gills there. He jerks a bit, biting his lip, clutching at the blankets like he’s trying not to grab you and pull you closer, and the smallest noise spills from him, a tiny, choked off moan. His genetic material’s smeared across your thighs, pooling on the sheets underneath him, and despite your lack of motion you can tell he’s so very close. 

 

“Gam,” he sobs, tears tracing shining patterns down the sides of his face, “Gam, please, I- I need-“

 

You shush him, kiss his tears away and cradle his cheek in one hand, keeping yourself from crushing him with the other. You don’t increase your pace, despite his pleading- you keep moving slowly, but you increase your force, driving into him hard, delighting in his quiet, frantic litanies, prayers for you to please, please make him come. 

 

He’s so beautiful, so fucking beautiful and all fucking yours, all yours and no one else’s. 

 

“All yours,” he agrees, voice broken, muted, growing steadily more silent the way he does when he’s so, so close, “I’m- fuck, I’m all yours, Gam, alw-ways, forewer, Gam- Gam _zee_ -!”

 

You thrust hard, once, twice, three times before he spills, clawing at the sheets and gasping inaudibly, voice ripped from his throat with the force of his pleasure. His desperate writhing and soft, choked off noises set you off not ten seconds after, and you bury your face in his throat and bite, just hard enough to mark, not hard enough to draw blood. Just enough to let everyone know, _he is yours, do not touch him_. 

 

“Mine, mine,” you murmur, licking his throat and your mark and holding him close, coaxing you both through the full run of your orgasms. He just nods, unable to form words, trilling and chirring and clinging to you with all his strength, hands twitting and jittering with aftershocks. 

 

He’s spent, tired, and when it’s all said and done he lies on the bed, limp and wrung out and more content than you’ve seen him in quite a while. You know you have to move, that he will throw fits if you let him fall asleep covered in his material and yours, but it’s with great reluctance that you force yourself upright and scoop him into your arms, carrying him to the ablution block. 

 

He’s too out of it to help much, but that’s alright. The whole point of it was to help your mothefucker relax, and it looks like you did your job a bit too well because he stays lax and sleepy the entire time it takes you to clean you both up, redress him, and tuck him into a corner of the platform that isn’t covered in your combined slurry. You are too worn yourself to even consider changing the sheets- you can do it later. 

 

Much later.

 

Preferably after napping and lazing around with the motherfucking cutest of fishes this side of the galaxy. 

 

You settle on the bed beside him, and he rolls to you, nestling right up against your chest, purring loudly enough to wake the dreaming. He chirps softly when you run a hand through his tangled hair, pressing against your fingers, and when he opens his eyes, they’re dazed, touch drunk. 

 

“I lowe you,” he sighs, and his eyes slide closed again, and he’s calm and loose and beautifully, miraculously relaxed in your grasp, curled up like a mewbeast, all the harsh lines from his face gone. 

 

“Love you too, little fish,” you murmur, and he smiles, presses a kiss to the underside of your jaw, and falls asleep, happy and at ease. 

 

You don’t think you’ve loved anyone quite as much as you love him. You don’t think any single motherfucker could ever burrow their way into your heart like your motherfucker has. You allow your own eyes to close, rest your hand against his head, keeping him pressed close. The sound of his breathing lulls you to sleep, more soothing than any miraculous music you’ve ever heard. Your little miracle. 


End file.
